And thus, our roads converge
by phiewdh
Summary: The Rivian-Lyrian army is plagued by what has been and what's to come, resulting in sleepless and, sometimes, horrifying nights. Luckily, there's help to be had that has... extrememly delicious consequences. (A smutty thing set in the Thronebreaker-verse of the Witcher world)


**I haven't written a Witcher-story for a very long time, but then I finished _Thronebreaker_ and felt my love for this series sprout anew. Hope you'll enjoy :) **

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Leaving Angren behind was a relief to the Rivian-Lyrian army. Walking on the muddy roads of the war-torn land, not having to be as vigilant with gazes now facing forwards rather than backwards felt easier beyond compare. Despite that, considering the situation was actually more controllable now, there was a debate among the footfolk what was actually to be considered worse; the way they faced their mortality during the fateful battle of the bridge close to Red Lobinden or the that the experiences of trudging through Ysgith still were fresh in their minds.

Even though there was a moment to breathe, for the Queen's army had reached the rolling hills of Rivia, home as it were, rest didn't come easy. Naturally, a big part of the army were tainted by what has befallen them and frightened screams were often heard throughout the night in the encampment, occurrences that made the nights longer for the others trying to sleep, not to mention the ones still awake guarding the camp.

Thus, the ones awake often sought company of others, which can only be considered natural. It's normal for folk trying to fill their heads with the ideas and sounds of others in order to prevent the inevitable, to refrain from thinking about atrocities that happened not too long ago. By doing so, one can almost pretend that dead men, unspeakable fear and horrible beasts were just a game of the mind and not reality, which really was what the vast majority of the army still hoped. But oh, how wrong they were to pretend, for relief was only as long as any vapid conversation, as long as a strained laugh or as long as the sting after a slap on the back.

For the Queen's closest comrades, the mess tent became the gathering point. It was where their lives converged on a daily basis anyway, so the thought of staying awake until until the sky to the east turned pink and yellow by wayward rays of sunlight, or just close enough, was a thought undoubtedly shared by many. No woman nor man was judged for thinking this, for the group had become closely tied together by what they had faced, and by what they soon knew they had to. No matter the outcome of the Queen's upcoming final battle, their relationships with each other would change, possibly even end. Even though it hadn't been said out loud, they all knew this and suddenly, it wasn't just the vivid memories of nightmarish quality that made them all sit, breathe, enjoy the peculiarities of others. The hope that what they had would last, for just a wee while yet, became equally as important.

On this particular night, one of the very first ones after their not so victorious return to Rivia, time seemed to move incredibly slow, the night seemingly never ending. Reynard and Gascon had played too many hands of cards to even keep count of them by now, their banter muted. Isbel continued to soak herbs she'd collected earlier during the day, preparing for the battle that was to come by making ointments and poultices. Arnjolf drank, copiously at that, for he couldn't be bothered if he actually saw tomorrow anyway, while Barnabas drew and drew on tattered pieces of paper, muttering to himself that 'this will never work', 'wonder if this can go there instead'. The Queen, though, was nowhere to be seen, at least not yet.

"You lost again, Reynard," Gascon said with a smug grin on his lips, blatantly stating the obvious. "One more to make it a 'abit? A law, if anything?"

Reynard sighed, for the brigand turned royal advisor had bested him all night, seemingly conjuring up strong hands despite what Reynard held in his. Reynard was sure that the Duke of Dogs wasn't playing fair, but he'd rather take those losses than the ones reprising themselves as soon as he closed his eyes.

"One more," Reynard agreed with the smallest of nods, after which Gascon started to shuffle the deck.

"You reckon Meve's asleep?" Gascon asked, mixing the cards together with a flourish.

"Her royal Highness," Reynard corrected with a displeased huff at the lack of decorum, "is hopefully resting, yes."

The two men became silent for a while then, lost to thoughts about what not only they, but the Queen as well, had endured during the time they'd been on the road. Anyone rallying under Meve's banner, simpleton or not, could see that the Queen had payed a high price for leaving her kingdom. Not only was she considered to be an usurper now, but she had lost not only her son to the Empire but also the lives of many who had chosen to follow her. The ones who decided to stay behind were lost, too; ravaged by the black sea of Nilfgaard without the chance of ever resurfacing. Speaking of things lost, well, one should also probably mention those teeth of hers, the scar across her face acting as a constant reminder of choices made, a sign of her struggle. Memories of decisions that would never wane.

Men talk amongst themselves as men are wont to do sometimes, and Reynard and Gascon were, surprisingly enough, in agreement as of late regarding matters concerning the Queen. Even though her exterior was as cool, hard and sharp as Mahakaman steel, her interior was that of a woman hurting, torn between what was to be considered good and what was considered right. She was frail now, but never let anyone else see her in that state but they knew. Her muted sniffs and, on occasion, badly stifled sobs coming from her tent, treacherously deceived her. Sometimes, they could be heard well into the wee hours of the night, depending on how close you were allowed to go, and Gascon and Reynard were always allowed close. Even so, they had never sought her out. Scared they were, of how to handle her and her grief, and thus, always went back through the mud from whence they came.

"Can we do something for 'er?" Gascon said, almost mouthing it, after a few shuffles and at least two cuts of the deck. "Meve, I mean."

"She's alright," Reynard answered just as low, sounding like he was trying to convince himself more than he did Gascon, "Me—, ahem, Her royal Highness, is… she's strong, you see. She's stronger than the lot of us. She has to."

Gascon, seemingly lost in thought now with his face shadowed by his cap, began dealing the cards and Reynard started sorting his hand, putting the higher ones to the left in the same way he'd sorted them all night.

The two had managed to play one round before a voice, loud and true, sounded above the muted chatter.

"A cup of tea! Be quick about it!"

By the sound of the Queen's voice, she was in a not so agreeable mood. Lack of sleep, a guilt-ridden conscience, dispair; her outbursts were nonetheless understandable. Hence, the quartermaster, who had been dozing off behind his counter, sprung to his feet and immediately put the kettle on, asking for the Queen's forgiveness in the most ridiculous of ways. Like the fire would grow hotter because of the excuses huffing and puffing out of him, much like the smoke from a forge.

The two advisors made themselves as invisible as they could, whilst still playing cards, mind, casting furtive glances in the Queen's direction. They knew better than to do anything that would pique her attention. After all, she needed her space. That was blatantly obvious. But also, that decision was maybe even an act of self-preservation, for the two men were still remembering the Queen's smarting reprimands, of them being untrustworthy, all too well.

Almost as an unspoken agreement between them, Reynard become the one who watched and Gascon, the one who listened, after the Queen had settled. The Queen, well, she was talking to Barnabas now, Reynard mumbled behind his hand of cards to Gascon, who in turn strained his ears beyond belief to catch even the slightest hint of the conversation.

Gascon's endeavours proved effective. After hearing Barnabas describe to the Queen about a certain noblewoman's scorching loins, he couldn't even manage to disguise his smile, taken with the gnome's ingenuity.

"Oh, I can see you're just dyin' to know. Aren't you, Reynard?" Gascon whispered, after seeing Reynard's raised eyebrows and curious look.

"No," Reynard whispered back behind his cards, "for your look says it all. You're as appalling as a troll wench, as obvious as a mutt in heat."

"I take tha'as a compliment!" Gascon interjected with a wink, putting down his cards on the table.

When the men had collected themselves, after firing nobly put insults one way and flippant retorts back, discussing under their breath who was a just winner and a sore loser, they saw that the Queen no longer stood by Barnabas. Instead, she stood with a tankard, for it's really inconvenient to bring teacups along on an army march, in her hand. Isbel was by her side now, talking to the Queen in a way that was both impossible to hear or decipher by reading of the lips. The Queen stood listening with a furrowed brow, nodding every now and then, sipping a little from her tankard.

To heighten the men's curiosity about the conversation taking place, although Reynard swore on his sword that it certainly was no matter of his, Isbel could be seen walking away from the Queen, back to her corner. There, she gathered something from her pouch of herbs, and walked towards the Queen anew.

"I'll get to you, later," she said in a whispery manner as she passed Reynard and Gascon by, making them feel utterly stupid in the process. They were like two boys, eavesdropping on adults who had made it perfectly clear that they weren't a part of the conversation. The fact that their ruse was no more, had Gascon chuckling and stretching out his arms over his head and Reynard looking the other way, like that particular corner of the mess tent was interesting beyond compare.

Naturally, what Isbel had gathered from her corner was meant for Queen Meve. Gascon and Reynard saw Isbel crush the herbs between her palms, down into the tankard. Meve drank it without hesitation, left the tankard on the table and, without as much as a word or a look, ducked underneath the tent flap on her way out. As she passed, Gascon followed her with his gaze, while Reynard felt nothing less but intoxicated by the scent of the now absent Queen.

Naturally, Gascon, and Reynard although he repeatedly said the opposite, were intrigued. They waited, and patiently so, for Isbel to return to them.

Naturally, the healer said nothing that possibly could be taken as a confidence broken, for she was loyal and wise. What Isbel did say though, was that she had a way to make them sleep. If they were lucky, there was a chance, albeit small, of them dreaming of other things than monsters and mauled men, which was about when Reynard and Gascon leaned in to hear more. When they were offered to drink Isbel's brew from the same tankard as their Queen, they hardly refused.

Unbeknownst to the men, and to the Queen who had by then returned to her tent, it would prove to turn into a very interesting night. For the three of them. Naturally.


End file.
